


Young Bloods

by Firelightmystic



Series: Young Bloods [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American Politics, Class & Race Issues, F/F, F/M, Hamilton with Social Media Access is a frightening prospect, M/M, Shenanigans, what happens in France doesn't always stay in France, when people want to fight they find an excuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-02 00:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6542620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firelightmystic/pseuds/Firelightmystic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People wander in and out your life for a season, for a reason. Sometimes you find them. Sometimes they find you. Sometimes chance throws you in each others path and sits back to watch the show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Alex met Phillis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is a bit triggery due to current societal tensions, but is meant to act as a pressure point that sets off the Boston Massacre, not a soapbox piece. This is a vehicle for slipping a few historical Revolution-era figures into the Hamiltonverse, as well a setup for oncoming trashy Founding Fathers smut. Don't take it _too_ seriously.
> 
> • Inspired by[Quid Pro Quo](/works/5880157) by [rillrill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill) (who so graciously let me play in her sandbox!)  
> • This starts about a year, year and a half before [Quid Pro Quo](/works/5880157)and spans the length of the main story and dabbles in the beyond.

 

The summer is a bad one, unbearably hot and sticky and _nasty,_ and simmering underneath the foul weather is the festering malcontent of the downtrodden and fed up. It's not entirely about racism or classism or sexism, but at the same time? Yeah, it kind of is. A thousand -isms are reaching critical mass and about to blow their collective lid. Nothing new there. Just America coming to terms with itself--again--and as always the process is messy. It's messy, and painful, and dangerous because change never comes quietly to America. The very roots of the United States are soaked in the blood of patriots and tyrants, in the blood of martyrs, and the currency of change is never far removed from that baser instinct toward violence.

The powder keg was due to be sparked off, but it was supposed to be Buffalo, or New Orleans, or Detroit. Miami, perhaps. Los Angeles was an old hat at civil unrest. A dozen major cities on the list of pending explosions, but no one expected Boston. Boston had its shit together, mostly. You weren't supposed to be able to see the fires of revolution glowing in the far distance along the harbor; the sounds of sirens and breaking glass and angry screaming were supposed to be conveyed through sound bites and video clips from the safety of your home, not carried on the wind from The Fens.

It would have been bad enough if it had been another dead kid; someone's baby in the wrong place at the wrong time being the wrong race with a too-twitchy cop behind the trigger. Yeah it was going to be fucked up, but that bullshit had been trending for a while so it wasn't going to even be a surprise. Just one more senseless tragedy that would send the whole mess flying apart and have some city flipping its phaser settings from "weary resignation" to "burn this mother down".

Crispus Attucks was a perfect storm. Head of the ACLU, prominent member of the HRC, former spokesperson for the NAACP, the most well-known face of the US Tribal Council, and much beloved philanthropist. This was a man who's death would piss off EVERYBODY. There couldn't have _been_ a worse person to fuck up with. The media would have been better off reporting Santa Claus had taken two to the head than Crispus Attucks, 47 years old, being shot and killed during what should have been a routine protest about police brutality, the first and most prominent casualty of what was now being styled the Boston Massacre by Samuel Adams and Paul Revere on CNN and Fox News, respectively.

Were they deliberately drawing allusions to the Boston Slaughter that had set off the American Revolution thanks to a twitchy British soldier and Wolf Blitzer and Anderson Cooper's propaganda campaign centuries ago? Hell yeah. Did it work?

Alexander Hamilton let out an explosive "FUCK ME!" as he all but threw himself through the smashed out windows of a nearby CVS Pharmacy, careful to protect his laptop case during the panicked dash for some kind of safety.

Short answer: It worked like a charm.

"NO LOOTING!"

The voice is deep and powerful and plainly confrontational, but he can't make out anything except for a male silhouette peeking over the desk of the photo center. It’s pretty dim in the store because all of the lights are off and the afternoon sun is being blocked by other, larger buildings surrounding it. Alex can feel A/C running and the sign in the window proclaiming the store as open is lit up. Looks like whoever was taking cover was pretty intent on keeping this one store in the middle of a wild riot safe. Alex moved out of direct line of sight of the door and around the twin rows of shopping carts barricading the entrance. "Uh, just trying not to get caught out there in the chaos. I'm not here to steal your shit or break anything."

"Are you carrying?" A stern female voice demands, but its owner doesn't reveal herself. It’s a pretty nice voice, richly accented but clear and precise. An educated voice.

"The fuck? Hell no! I'm a _journalist...”_ Hamilton wants a word with the Powers-That-Be about this shit, too. Dodging angry rioters was not in his job description _or_ paygrade. Not for him to play low man on the totem pole to _Seabury_ of all people. Myles Cooper is going to owe him so much for this crap.

"Shouldn't you be outside covering what's going on for whoever you work for?" The male silhouette begins to resolve itself into a rather stressed looking employee as Alex gets closer. The red vest is a major factor in that, to be honest. He's got to be either a manager or fresh meat to still be inside this store, however. Which is completely ridiculous, either way.

_You'd think they'd left you off work early when they were rioting outside the door._

"Shit man, I was here trying to cover a ribbon-cutting. Next thing I know, it's revolution." As if to emphasize his words, shattering glass is heard over raucous shouts of "FUCK THE POLICE".

There is literally nothing else that he needs to say after that little performance outside. Alex looks nonplussed at the guy behind the photo center counter. See what I mean?

The employee sighs and relaxes a bit. "Yeah, that's kinda how the day’s been going. Come on behind the counter, bro. We're waiting this shit out."

Alex doesn't argue, picking up the speed and hopping up and over the counter.

"Down!"

The loud warning makes Alex immediately duck down and tuck in protectively below glass level, faded memories Afghanistan rising up in his memory before mercifully going away. The cacophony of shattered glass--courtesy of a well thrown brick at one of the few remaining windows--wasn't exactly good for his nerves, but it also wasn't enough to trigger him back to desert heat, the staccato patter of automatic weapons, or panicked orders from his unit's commander.

Small mercies.

Smoke starts drifting in the far corner of the store from one of the windows but doesn't encroach too far, and Alex peeks over the counter to see that some asshole outside the gas station across the street has set a trashcan on fire.

"Well, today is just fucked right the hell up. 0/10, would not do again."

They all laugh weakly at that, and Alex uses the moment to take stock of the people around him. There's the sacrificial employee--Caucasian, bald with a pretty kickass looking tattoo sleeve on his right arm, some poor guy who looks the wrong side of 17 wearing a black shirt with #YOLO420SWAGFORLIFE emblazoned across the front and a pair of ripped up jeans, and the budding comedienne herself, a petite black girl with a thick mass of curly hair that would probably go all the way down her back if she got it straightened. She was the most out of place going by looks alone--the black designer lightweight three piece suit she's wearing is far too sophisticated for her apparent age—which looks to be a few years under him, the shoes alone look like they cost more than his paycheck, and Alex peers closer at her, intrigued. She’s the classiest looking person he’s seen in this area, even before the riot broke out.

And she looks familiar...very familiar. Alex squints in the darkened gloom for a long moment, then his jaw drops as his brain puts it all together.

_No. Freaking. Way._

The girl sighs and leans her head back against the wall in resignation, her springy curls falling out of the way to reveal her ears and Alex is able to count a row of tiny diamond studs marching up each one. He lets his eyes move across the delicate features of her face to focus on the tiny stud in her right nostril, and then up into brilliant honey-brown eyes framed by thick lashes and a smudge of smoky-gold eyeshadow. Alex counts them again. Six. Six sets of piercings, one for every year she spent as a child slave before fleeing to the US and being taken in by a prominent family. Phillis Wheatley, poetess, activist, and rising international celebrity is stuck in a busted up CVS during the middle of a riot. With him.

"How the hell did you caught up in all of this?" There are better questions to ask—and he’ll certainly take advantage of that opportunity—but that is the most immediate one.

Phillis sighs, and leans forward again, resting her arms on her knees. "I got separated from the procession on the way to the graveside. Got lost three minutes later, took a wrong turn and ended up driving into the thick of riot central."

"Oh."

Alex made himself comfortable on a nearby box, and they all drifted into an uneasy silence for about four or five minutes. The kid is watching YouTube on his tablet, Store Manager James (Alex finally got a good look at the name tag) is texting someone, and Phillis stares out the window with wide, pained eyes and a somber frown, and Alex thinks for a second she might be crying. No tears fall however, so he lets it go and pretends as if all the answers to life, the universe, and everything are on his iPhone.

Someone lights another trashcan across the way at the gas station and throws it into the middle of the street to join its burning companion. Alex can only pray that the wind doesn’t blow more of the smoke straight into the store. That’s just too much to ask of him right here and now. Store Manager James curses under his breath and swears that he's quitting tomorrow.

"Shiiit. Someone else is going to get shot if this gets anymore out of hand."

Alex glanced over at the kid he's been mentally referring to as Swag-Stoner. "Rubber bullets, maybe. You'd have to be an _idiot_ to fire into the middle of this."

Disgruntled noises all around, and okay yeah, that's exactly what started all of this. Alex sighs. WTF.

"Didn't stop 'em last week, bro. They're saying we were throwing rocks, what kind of bullshit is that!?"

Alex takes better stock of Swag-Stoner. Definitely can't be older than 18 or 19, the eyebrow piercing and clothing style mark him as a member of the current counter-culture, but there is something intelligent lurking behind those eyes. "You were there?"

Swag-Stoner shrugs, pauses the YouTube video he was watching and actually takes out his earbuds. Whoa, respect. "There's this pretty kickass sandwich joint near there, and people were talking about how there was a protest going on against police brutality while I was in line. I figured I'd grub on the go and see what was up, but things were already getting pretty heated by the time I arrived."

"You mind if I take notes? Record this? We're probably not going anywhere for a while, so I could interview you?" Alex can feel that tingle on his spine he gets whenever he's got something _great_ brewing on the proverbial stove. Serious stories, something meaty and relevant and not fucking zoo pieces or ribbon-cuttings or whatever scut jobs get tossed his way while establishment shill Samuel Seabury craps all over journalism's good name.

"Sure thing. My name's Henry Pelham."

"Alexander Hamilton. PolitiFinder." Alex holds his hand out and Henry grasps it firmly, shakes with a surprisingly confident grip. "What about you, man?"

Store Manager James shrugs. "I wasn't there."

"But you're here now, in the thick of things. Didn't the rioting today start near here?"

Store Manager James considers for a moment, then looks at him warily. "What are you going to say?"

"Nothing but the truth. Whatever you guys tell me. The world deserves to know what actually went down, not what gets spoon-fed to them from freaking Paul Revere or Samuel Adams."

"Alright. I can do that. James Bowdin."

Alex turn to look at the last member of their group after shaking Bowdin’s hand. "Ms. Wheatley?" A first-hand perspective from Phillis freaking Wheatley. Seabury'll shit himself.

"No. I've already had my say."

"But--"

" _Please,_ not right now."

Alex stares at Phillis. She's not crying, but it's pretty damn obvious she's not okay. She looks worried. She looks angry. She looks tired, and mournful, and stressed and _hurt._ Alex's brain catches up with him. Phillis Wheatley lost a mentor and colleague, and on the day of his freaking funeral the city starts rioting. Phillis Wheatley has always been an advocate of non-violence and peaceful resistance, as had Crispus Attucks. The riot flies in the face of everything they believed in, and from the angry condemnation in her official statement last week she'd already been having a rough time reconciling her pacifist stance with her own personal frustrations.

Phillis sees him see too much, and turns away to look at James, doing her best to school her expression back towards something close to calm neutrality. She completely fails, but the effort is there. "Hey, can I get a drink? I'll pay."

"Fuck it, get whatever. I'm quitting tomorrow morning."

Phillis nods her thanks before cautiously making her way to the row of drink cases blessedly stationed next to the photo center. They all do her the courtesy of pretending not to notice the few tears that fall as she passes through them, or the quiet sniffle.

"Holy shit, I made America's Cinnamon Roll cry." Alex mutters in disgusted resignation.

"Pretty sure that one's not your fault, bro. She was out there yelling and trying to get people to stand down earlier before it got really bad, but someone lobbed a beer bottle at her and started tearing shit up. Kinda went downhill from there. Biggie over here dragged her inside crying and screaming and locked down the store. There were some serious waterworks an hour or two ago. Where do you want me to start?"

“Just talk. I’ll throw in any questions as they come up.” Alex has the recorder on his phone going, and begins to scribble down notes on his jeans with the pen he fishes out of his bag. His laptop died earlier, and he still can't believe he forgot the power cord back at his hotel room.

The three of them confer, and Alex says nothing when he feels the presence at his side, just scoots over a bit further so Phillis has more room while he puts together the details of the monumental fuck-up and today's subsequent unrest. Phillis places two bags of Doritos and five water bottles in the middle of their huddle, then passes a bag of hard candy and a bottle of grape juice to Henry, the Swag-Stoner. "You mentioned something about low-blood sugar earlier today, right?"

Henry looks at her with faint awe. "You are a magical unicorn of win and awesome."

"Unicorns are pretty awesome." Alex tosses out like a complete dork, but he doesn't catch any shit for it--probably because it makes Phillis Wheatley laugh, and that's definitely a good thing. She pulls out her own phone and does whatever it is genius poets do in the middle of a riot while the rest of them finish up their impromptu interview.

By the time they wind down, the momentum of the riot has changed and Alex imagines that they'll be fine to leave in another hour or so, just enough time for the stragglers to clear out. James and Henry agree. Phillis isn't even paying attention--she's angrily typing, freshly manicured nails clicking lightly on the screen of her Razr Maxx as she cuts loose.

James and Henry have gone back into their own private worlds, so Alex turns around so he can see Phillis a bit better. "Shit got real on social media?"

It's another minute before Phillis replies. "Hell yeah. Twitter. Thomas Jefferson is a fucking asshole."

Fair enough. Thomas Jefferson is one of the most hypocritical, super-conservative, sanctimonious asswipes to ever haunt the American political landscape, and a less charitable person would refer to him as real-life troll.

"What's up?"

Phillis brings up the offending tweet and Alex reads it once, twice, and his vision goes red for a moment. ‘Supposed pacifist picks a fight with the cops, loses, and leaves a riot for a legacy. Lifetime achievement award much?’ It is one of the most inflammatory things he has ever read.

“Oh fuck that!” Alex is fishing for his phone and frantically scrolling for his Twitter app while Phillis urges him to hurry up and get in on things while it’s still fresh.

They drag the Tweet all across social media—Facebook, Twitter, even Tumblr…it’s a tag team effort, really. Twitter’s character limit is driving him insane so Alex just shares the Tweet all over the place and takes to Facebook to rip it apart and signal boost Jefferson’s d-baggery. Phillis is a poet with some pretty deep credentials, and she’s been owning Jefferson’s ass all over Twitter because even though 140 characters is a pretty steep limit, it’s just right for a haiku roast. Alex swings through there every five or six minutes to retweet her posts and share them to Facebook, and she follows the trail to his Facebook page to back him up and help put some of the trolls in check when they rush to their master’s defense. A few of his own posts end up dragged into Twitter-land courtesy of Phillis’ sharing.

Somewhere in the middle of their allied attack, Alex follows Phillis, she follows him back, and they’ve friended each other on Facebook as well.

Jefferson crawls back under his rock forty minutes in because all of Phillis’ haikus are beginning to trend and he can’t keep up with her _and_ the Facebook shitstorm _,_ so Phillis abandons the Twitter crusade to wage her battle on Facebook. In between their posting, Alex gets a private message from Phillis. It’s got her phone number and her personal Twitter id. A Facebook friend request that matches her private Twitter id is also waiting.

Alex doesn’t have separate accounts because if he puts it on the Internet, he’d have said it to your face, too. He’s not the sort to hide behind a screenname. Alex feeds her his phone number, though.

Phillis saves it to her phone under “Don Quixote” and snaps a quick picture of his face to go with the profile. The flash nearly blinds Alex, but it doesn’t bother him too much because he apparently made friends with Phillis-freaking-Wheatley and this cannot be real life.

“I’m not the sort of person to go tilting at windmills, though.”

“You are. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. ” Phillis looks pleased that he gets the literary reference, though.

Sirens can be heard in the distance—police have finally broken through and are restoring order. Most of the crowd scatters—the stragglers and diehards that remain are almost certain to be arrested.

After another fifteen minutes that seem to stretch on four hours, they pick their way out of the store, give statements to the police and take cards incase they’re needed for statements. Most of the paranoia is missing because James is smart enough to wear his vest outside when the police finally roll in, and a few of the officers recognize the name Phillis Wheatley when she hands over her license, if not her face.

“You okay?”

Phillis’ head pops up, and the late setting sun sparks off the abundant red highlights in her hair that he couldn’t make out inside the darkened store. She’s been staring at the street, at the ruin and wreckage. Windows are broken out all along the block, and trash and glass cover the street. The whole neighborhood is a disaster area.

“They’ll never take us seriously like this. The war is waged through hearts and minds, and you reach those with words, not by busting up a city.”

Alex shrugs, a half-hearted gesture because he can’t entirely disagree with her. The problem is that sometimes it takes bold actions to shake people out of their comfort zones, to make them receptive. A physical strafing run to lay open the path for the words to strike home. He says as much.

Phillis sighs after a long silence. “Perhaps. Maybe.” She glances up at him. “I’m going to see if I can find a way out of here.”

“Said the Joker to the Thief.” He doesn’t normally quote song lyrics, but the opening was perfect and it gets genuine amusement to flare in Phillis’ eyes, chasing away the some of the gloom that’s still weighing her down.

“Next you’ll be trying to challenge me to a rap battle.”

“Oh, snap. Does the wordsmith care to spit a few bars?”

Phillis snorts and gingerly steps over larger pieces of debris in the road. “Help me find my car and I might let you try my Wu-Tang style.”

Once-in-a-lifetime opportunities don’t just drop into your lap. Trolling around town with Phillis Wheatley for company is _not_ something to be passed up. “So hey, if your car’s sitting on blocks or burnt to a crisp, want to go find food? Drinks?”

“Maaaaybe.” Phillis continues to work her way through the filth in the street.

“Hitch a ride to Monticello and throw stones at Thomas Jefferson’s windows?”

_That_ gets a full-bodied laugh. “You know, I might not actually delete your information out of my phone tonight, Hamilton.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phillis Wheatley: Look her up, guys. First black poet, first _female_ black poet, first black person to publish a book, first black international celebrity (they loved her in England and Canada, and her work was starting to creep into France) and major abolitionist who took pen to paper to further the cause alongside such names as Thomas Paine and, yes, Alexander Hamilton. She was also one of the major poets writing on the American Revolution. She was considered an intellectual and literary genius, having been trained in the Greek and Latinclassics by age 12 and started writing poetry of her own--utterly unheard of for any slave (she was eventually freed, but STILL). George III intended to meet her himself, but Phillis returned to the States before they got the chance. Many of the founding fathers honored her, and George Washington was so impressed he invited her to meet him at his headquarters and she dealt a HUGE crack in the prevailing belief that people of African descent were intellectually inferior. Everyone writing on slavery dragged her out at one point or another. John Newton (yes, that Newton) discussed Wheatley in his private correspondence. Voltaire (yeah, _Voltaire)_ loved her work. This lady was a literary badass. ~~(Unless you asked Thomas Jefferson, who had to be a dick about everything and refused to acknowledge her work as poetry or even admit she was capable of writing anything of quality.~~
> 
> Crispus Attucks: Half Black-Half Native American, the first casualty of the Boston Massacre.
> 
> James Bowdin and Henry Pelham were behind the drawing of the Boston Massacre that populates most textbooks even up to today.
> 
> Paul Revere and Samuel Adams are widely suspected of having manipulated details of the Boston Massacre, and were notorious for spin-doctoring everything to sway the colonies towards Revolution. They werecompletely without remorse, and are totally a Revolution-era Wolf Blitzer and Anderson Cooper. Since the Revolution gang got flipped to the modern era, it’s only fair that Wolf and Anderson find their niche in a similar spot in the Revolution Era.


	2. How Alex Met Thomas Paine (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~The Story of Tonight~~   
>  ~~Most Disputes Die and No One Shoots~~   
>  ~~Ten Duel Commandments~~   
>  ~~Young, Scrappy, and Hungry~~   
>  ~~There Are Ten Things You Need To Know~~   
>  ~~In which the author tries to plug as many Hamilton songs in one go as possible~~   
>  ~~John started it~~   
>  ~~Thomas started it, John finished it.~~

 

 

11:30 PM, EST

 

The crack of what is no doubt a freshly broken nose destroys what little remains of the party ambiance, and Thomas Paine goes rocking back on his feet and stumbles, thrown off balance by a well-aimed fist.

Alexander Hamilton is perhaps the most infamous member of the Bad Temper Society, but only because he’s the mouthy one. He’ll lay down a verbal reaming or put pen to paper and write a 72 page dissertation on why you suck. Words linger far longer than beating the shit out of someone, so his reputation is set.

John Laurens is the most _dangerous_ member of the Bad Temper Society because he has a pretty short fuse, and what usually gets found at the end of that pretty short fuse is his foot up someone’s ass. John’s only saving grace is that he usually doesn’t instigate the fights he gets in to. Usually. John’s got some kind of massive pistols-at-dawn blood-feud going with Thomas Paine nobody knew about until they started in on each other as soon as they crossed paths, and they’ve been goading each other into a throw down all night.

Thomas can scrap though, so the “John-Laurens-tried-to-put-his-fist-clean-through-my-face” induced stumbling is short lived. He regains his balance and promptly lunges at John, coming in low and tackling the other man to the ground where they began to tussle, flipping and cursing and raining down blows wherever they can. Hercules is busy helping Phillis out of the pool she just got knocked into, so someone else is going to have to be the bigger man and pull the two combatants apart.

Unfortunately, that bigger man is going to have to be Alexander Hamilton because everyone else is too stunned (or too damn messy) to break up the fight, however. Alex is trying to figure out the best way to get Laurens out of the fight without getting his own ass kicked in the process, but Paine begins to get the upper hand and drills Laurens with two hard right hooks across the face and is going in for a third. Alex decides he better back John up instead because Paine has about eighty pounds on him and being best friends with someone has rules, damnit.

Number one: If your best friend is getting his ass kicked, you tag in.   

Alex jumps on his back.

That distracts Paine long enough for Laurens to scoot out from underneath his attacker, and Alex--who fights dirty when it comes down to it--goes for Paine's _shirt_ instead, and has the offending garment pulled up and draped over his head, effectively trapping his opponent in his own clothing. Thus incapacitated, Hamilton begins to pummel Paine in the stomach and kidneys with his free hand while John watches Alex execute an “Inglewood Jack” with grim satisfaction as he takes stock of his injuries. (His lip is busted and his eye throbs. He’s going to have one hell of a shiner come morning. Thankfully his teeth aren't tricked up. Paine hits like a damn freight train.)

Hercules--the only one of them who apparently has any sort of self-control--has Phillis up out of the pool, and after making sure she's steady on her feet he rushes into the fray to pull Hamilton off of Paine and separate the brawling duo.

Thomas spits at Hamilton once they've been separated, and though it doesn't connect Hercules has to move to block Laurens as well because he's ready to come back in for another blow or two on Hamilton's behalf.

Thomas wipes at his bloody nose, smearing blood across his lower face and hand, which he stares at in alarm. "My nose! Laurens, you fucking cocksucker! I swear I'll-" he starts forward but is dragged back by someone else.

"Hey, you want to go another round?!" John tries to lunge too, but Hercules still has him blocked from taking a clear shot at Paine.

" _No one's_ throwing down again. We're out of here." Hercules has his hands full containing John, but he starts to subside when it finally sinks home that Hercules isn't going to let him fight it out with Thomas.

Alex has to shake his head. Most people expect Herc to be the trouble maker, but he's usually the one smoothing ruffled feathers and keeping anyone else from going off. Alex knows his own shortcomings--he goes off quick, but he calms down just as quick, too. _John_ is the grudge-holding s.o.b. in their crew, so he doesn't protest when Herc gently but firmly pushes him towards the exit because he knows Mulligan needs to keep Laurens in line. John has been known to break loose and go wading back in to finish up an asskicking. He's also been known to wait around outside to continue beating someone's ass, so Alex reckons they're going straight to the car. Alex also realizes they are down a person, and turns back around to see where Phillis is.

She’s over by Thomas, who’s watching them head out, obviously contemplating all the ways he's going to fuck up Laurens' life as soon as he gets a chance. He wipes at the blood still oozing out of his nose, then reaches for Phillis, turning his gaze toward the other exit.

Phillis knocks his hand away, and Thomas turns around and rears back as he takes her in. Phillis is completely drenched; her retro disco-dress plastered to her slight frame, her usually bouncy curls a sodden, flat mess. He reaches for her and she backs up another step, and Alex is not sure but he thinks she’s telling him off.

Alex can’t help but think Thomas Paine is a stupid prick, especially since he had to have heard the startled yep and splash into the pool. How did he _not_ put two and two together to realize that it was _Phillis_. It’s sure as hell clicking now, and Alex watches Paine go sickly pale as he finally notices the rapidly darkening bruise just below her jawline.

Yeah, you fucked up, buddy. No one likes a guy who hits a girl, even if you accidentally hit her because you were too busy trying to fight one of her friends. Alex watches Thomas’ eyes soften and genuine alarm and concern fill his expression. Associates-with-benefits his ass. No matter what Phillis might think, it’s evident that Thomas caught feelings somewhere along the line. "Fuck, Lissy, babe, I didn't mean to--I would _never--_ "

"Save it. We are _so_ done, Tommy." Phillis darts a quick look over her shoulder and Alex jerks his head towards the parking lot. She gives Paine one last dirty look before rushing off to catch up to them. Hercules hadn’t bothered to stop when Alex did because John's trying to break out of his hold while he rattles off what sounds like some kind of Klingon-grade death curse in broken Spanish interspersed with anatomically impossible and blasphemously profane suggestions about what Paine can do with himself in gutter French. Alex holds the gate to the parking lot open for her and latches it behind them after she passes through.

"Coming with us?"

"Hell yeah."

"I can't believe--"

 

9:24 PM, EST

 

"--you're here, too?!"

"Hamilton!" Phillis Wheatley ducks around the man who's giving Laurens the stink-eye and gives Alex a quick one-armed squeeze, carefully holding her drink out with the other so she doesn't spill it on him. "I didn't know you were here!"

"Thomas Paine, long time no see." John's party buzz is immediately replaced with an air of cool civility, and it never ceases to amaze Alex how John can turn a neutral statement into such an obvious "go to hell" without ever saying the actual words. It's a talent, truly it is. 

"Indeed."

"You two know each other?" Phillis darts glances between Thomas and John, who aren't looking too thrilled at seeing each other. To be honest about things, Alex has seen less tension between two alley cats posturing for dominance. Thomas looks more disturbed than angry, while John is just flat disgusted that Paine is alive and is equally irritated they are in the same mile radius of each other. This ain’t good at all. Phillis comes to the same conclusion so she tries to cut it off at the pass, blessed be the peacemakers. "Alex, you didn't tell me you were friends with John Laurens!"

"I did too! I said he was my roommate."

"Yeah, your roommate John." Phillis mimics and shoves at Alex playfully. "You never mentioned the last name! How have you been, Laurens?"

"Good. I didn't know you knew Thomas here."

Alex glances over at the man at Phillis' side. He has the whole "urban jungle" look down pat--and yeah, Thomas is definitely hot--but what really strikes Alex is the man's eyes--Alex had never seen a person with two eye colors before. The right one is hazel, and the left green. He's heard of it, sure, but never has he seen it before. Alex catches Phillis' fleeting smirk and shrugs guilelessly once he realizes she's caught him scoping out her buddy. Boyfriend? Not his business. A two-night stand doesn’t give him rights to get his nose out of joint about who she does or doesn’t do.

The two-night stand and subsequent months of hanging out _does_ make them friends, though, so he figures he can be a bit nosy because if they don’t have a thing, he’s going to see how well his chances are with this guy. Besides, Phillis can’t talk. If you bring eye-candy around, you shouldn't get mad if people look. Doubly so if you haven’t locked them down. Phillis sets her wine aside, lips quirking in that mysterious half-smile she's been perfecting for the last six months (and he has the snapchats demanding critiques to prove it) as she pointedly shifts closer to John. Is it permission? Wait. Shit. John. John and this guy are apparently Not Friends. Damn.

Thomas doesn't look so thrilled that Phillis is getting friendly with his sworn enemy or whatever, but he buries it quickly and grins when Phillis looks up at him. His teeth are very straight and very white, and the smile is very, very fake.

"John and I worked together on a fundraiser after he started interning for the HRC earlier this year, Tommy. He's good people." Phillis treated him to the same one-armed hug she'd given Alex, then turned back to Tommy. "How do you know John?"

"France." The statement is bitter, and weary, and said in unison by both Thomas and Laurens, who shoot each other dirty glares.

"Ohhhh." 

Alex and Herc share a look. John had spent almost a full year abroad as part of some kind of international relations legal program or whatever, and came back complaining about the "moronic, oversexed, extremist, two-faced, self-entitled, ass-kissing, disgrace of a wannabe lawyer". From the similar look on Phillis' face, she's gotten the same earful from Thomas about John.

The silence goes awkward after another minute, so Hercules goes wading into the fray. "So, these losers know you, but I've only heard the legends. Hercules Mulligan."

"Phillis Wheatley." They shake hands and Phillis gestures around. "How long have you guys been here?"

"Uhhh....about an hour or so. We came to say hey to a few people I know." John waves his hand lazily at the crowd. “They’re lost somewhere in there. Probably schmoozing with the birthday girl. The open bar was pretty good incentive to stick around. Not excluding yourself, Mizz Wheatley.” John breaks the Southern drawl out for Phillis, who rolls her eyes but is plainly grinning at John’s antics.

"Speaking of friends, I think I see some of ours over there, Lissy. Let’s head back." Thomas starts to head off, clearly wanting away from John, but pauses when he realizes that Phillis is instead making herself comfortable in one of the empty chairs at what John had claimed as their table about ten minutes after they'd first arrived.

"Uh...Phillis?"

"Yeah?"

"Our friends?" The emphasis Thomas places on "our" is rather unmistakable. So is the frown that briefly forms on Phillis' face. Phillis has never liked being told what to do.

"Those are _your_ friends, Tommy. I didn't even want to come. I'll just hold it down over here for a while. With people _I_ know." Phillis crosses one white go-go boot clad leg over the other and picks at a tiny piece of fuzz on her green and white disco dress.

"They _are_ your friends, you just don't give them a chance. Betty--"

"Is this the same Betty that spent ten minutes complimenting me for being so well spoken and marveling at how I don't sound "ethnic" at all during my readings?" Alex nearly chokes on his beer while John mutters an astonished "Wow". Hercules looks down at his empty glass and mutters something about "not being buzzed enough for this shit" and heads back toward the bar.

"Betty's still learning--"

"And I don't have time to hold her hand through a racial awakening in post-modern America."

"Phillis, do you have to take everything the worst way possible? I swear, you'd find something racist about a bag of M&Ms! You're the first black friend she's really ever had and she's new to this. She _is_ trying. Maybe you shouldn't be so hard on her."

"I also have no interest in being someone's token black friend."

"Damnit Phillis, would you--"

"Jesus, get a clue Paine. She doesn't want to be bothered." Alex snaps. Friday nights are for drinking and partying and sticking John or Herc with the designated driver job.

"Wasn't talking to you, buddy."

"Christ, Tommy, give it a rest. Just go mingle. I'll find you in a little bit." Phillis waves him off, completely done with the whole evening.

Thomas Paine says nothing and just stares in frustration for a long moment, then stalks away towards the opposite side of the party.

"...I don't fucking believe it."

"Believe what?" Phillis glances over at John as Hercules returns with two bottles of Sam Adams, a bottle of water, and a whiskey sour for her.

"Thomas Paine was always a self-serving prick, but I didn't think he'd stoop so low as to try and _pass_ just to get ahead."

Alex pauses and turns to look at Laurens, who is staring after Paine with mounting disgust. "Say what?"

"He just said Phillis was that Betty chick's first black friend. That’s bullshit. Thomas Paine is pretty fucking black."

"Whaaaaaaat?" Phillis sits straight up in her chair and Alex and Hercules lean in closer to John, who gestures wildly with his beer. "I've _met_ his parents. They're, like, their own Rainbow Coalition they're so mixed up with everything. It’s actually kind of cool. Anyway, his dad, though? Not 100% black—I think he said he was part Cherokee or maybe Hispanic? I forget. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter because his dad identifies as black.” John polishes off his beer and reaches for the fresh one Herc passes him.

Herc hands Phillis her drink, then places the bottle of water and the beer in the middle of the table. “Game on, Alex.”

He and Herc are playing a game of chicken over who’s going to round out the night as designated driver. If Herc drinks this next one, it falls in his lap. If he breaks and drinks first, Herc is off the hook. He and Herc have gone pretty light on the drinks because of that, unlike John, who is edging his way toward shitfaced because he covered for them the last two times they all went out together and called a free pass. Assisting John in his endeavor is two shots of tequila, one margarita, and now his third beer which he takes a sip of before continuing his Thomas Paine exposé.

“Paine looks pretty freaking Caucasian because he takes after his mom’s side, but he's _at least_ half black; we got blitzed and _calculated_ it while we were in Paris one night. You’d think he would’ve maybe copped to it with whatsherface! It’s not like there’s anything to be ashamed, Jesus!" John demands of Phillis, who just shrugs and reaches for her freshly delivered margarita.

“Betty. And no, he definitely never let on he understood how fucking awkward her questions and comments were. It would’ve been nice to have known I had someone on my side. I’ll bring it up if I see him again.”

John gives her a confused look. " _If_ you see--wait, are you two even together?"

Phillis sighs and plays with the stem of her margarita glass. "Ummmmm….”

“Phillis!”

Phillis tosses her hands up defensively. “Look, he thinks we are, but I haven't exactly updated the Facebook status or anything. We're...associates with benefits?"

"The saying is friend with benefits, Wheatley." Alex corrects before he proceeds to grab the beer while Hercules is looks down at his ringing phone. There is a gusty sigh from Herc when he looks back up and catches Alex smiling at him, bottle to his lips, and he glumly reaches for the bottle of water.

Phillis looks very, very guilty for a moment, then sighs. "True talk? We're not really friends. I don't think. Maybe? He's a recovering semi-Republican corporate shill of an editorialist that I spend most days wanting to kill, but he has these moments when he gets downright transcendent with a pen and he’s hung like a damn horse."

"That's shallow as hell." John scolds her.

"That's shallow as hell." Phillis agrees, and leans back in her seat. "Topic change. Tommy gets enough ego stroking without me spending time away from him _talking_ about his crazy ass. Failing the Bechdel test is a crap way to spend a Friday night."

"Wait, what's the Bechdel test?" Hercules asks.

"Jeez man, just--"

 

11:02 PM, EST

"--Google it!"

"No way. You're not going to ruin chocolate for me too, woman!" Hercules claps his hand firmly over his ears, which only serves to spurs Alex and John into trying to pull his hands away. They manage to get a decent gap, but it requires constant pressure because Herc doesn’t skimp on arm days, apparently. "Back up off me! I'm not going to sit here and let you kill Mr. Goodbar for me!"

"Child slavery, punkin. Mars, Nestle, and Hershey all got busted for it. _I_ worked a cocoa farm until I was maybe 8 or 9 and managed to sneak onto a ship out of the Ivory Coast and wound up in the States."

Alex nods vigorously. "You had to have known! It was all over the news for months. They're being _sued._ I wrote an article about it and everything a while back."

Phillis shakes her head sadly and pats Hercules' hand as he groans and buries his face in his arms. "Herc, every time you eat a Mr. Goodbar, a puppy dies."

Hercules lets out a manly wail into his arms and Alex nearly snorts beer out his nose. He can't believe this crap. Hercules is a grown-ass man having an existential crises over his favorite piece of candy, holy shit.

"Look, you didn't know. Now you do. Just buy ethically sourced chocolate. Mr. Goodbars are crap candy, anyway."

Hercules jerks his head up to gaze at Phillis in abject horror. "I want a divorce."

"Uh, we're not married."

"Exactly. We’re divorced, and I want chocolate alimony."

They all laugh at that, practically falling over each other at Hercules’ expense. Which is too bad, because Thomas Paine comes up out of freaking nowhere, and he's not looking too pleased to find them all buddy-buddy.

"Lissy, I think I saw Angelica Schuyler show up a few minutes ago. We should—”

Phillis bristles angrily. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

“Well, you have to network better, Phillis! You haven’t been writing, so you need--” Thomas snaps, and Alex winces as Phillis stands up to face down Thomas. It’s not very impressive because even in the boots Phillis is _short,_ but Paine has managed to stomp all over every single nerve she has, and while Phillis doesn’t get violent with anyone or anything, she’s got a mouth on her and pending membership to the Bad Temper Society.

“I don’t _need_ to do any damn thing, Tommy. I’ve got four poetry anthologies, three masters, and a goddamn _doctorate—_ I frolic in academic journals and live at the top of the New York Time’s best seller list. I could write a two page ode to my favorite Urban Decay eyeshadow palette tonight and have 300 people blowing up my phone for readings and TV interviews by 11:30 tomorrow morning. If you want to network for yourself, fine, but I’m not going to let you drag me around all over this party just so you can trade on my name. _You_ go network—I’ve found _my_ friends and am enjoying _my_ evening with them.”

When they re-examine what exactly went wrong with the night (too many drinks, John and Thomas looking for a reason to fight and finding it, too many drinks and too many shot nerves, too many drinks and some heavy-duty shit getting dragged into the open) Alex will remember this particular moment as the one where everything started to derail.

John, who can’t leave well enough alone when he feels like someone needs to be called out, crosses his arms and looks snidely at Thomas. “Man, I haven’t seen you so desperate since you flunked out of law school and went groveling to the Dean.”

Jaw drops around the table. Phillis looks stunned and kind of sick, but he’s not sure if it’s because of all the dirt John viciously keeps spewing about Thomas, or something else. “You _lied_ to me about graduating!?”

“Babe, it’s not like that.”

“What the actual fuck, Thomas. You lie about your education, your background, and—"

“My background?!”

Hercules casually throws up the Black Power fist. “What’s up, my brother?”

Thomas goes deathly pale, then sends John the dirtiest look Alex has ever seen. Like, ever. By all rights, John should be dead, buried, and rotting in the ground off the strength of Paine’s glare. “What the fuck did you tell her behind my back, asshole!?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were in the closet about your heritage. My bad, man.” John takes another sip of his beer, and Alex actually has an odd moment of pity for Thomas because it’s pretty clear John is out to ruin his life right now. He’s certainly ruining any chance of a relationship between Thomas and Phillis. He’s seen John get mean with people before, but never to this extent. What the hell did Thomas do to him?!

“I’ll deal with you later Laurens, you son of a bitch. Lissy look—”

“Don’t Lissy me, Thomas. Why didn’t you say anything? Are you freaking ashamed or something?”

“Of course not! It just never came up.”

“ _Really_. How about any of the fifty billion awkward times I caught racist bullshit off your crowd and you didn’t say anything, just apologized for them and glossed it over as them not knowing any better or not meaning anything by it. You could have said something. How about when we were talking about childhood and our parents? You could’ve said something _then._ ”

“I didn’t think it _mattered._ You’re the one always going on about race, Phillis. I figured out a long time ago that you get through life a lot easier not deliberately making mountains of molehills.”

“ _Jesus,_ Tommy. I talk about it because I don’t have any other choice. I don’t get to escape its effect on my life. How do you not get that?!”

“What I get is that you get over-sensitive about a lot of things, and have a bad habit of turning class issues into racial ones. That’s not a solution to the problem—it just fans the flames. That’s beside the point, though.”

“And what exactly is the point?”

“The point is that if you want to know about me, you come to me and not get shit second-hand from John fucking Laurens.”

“I think the problem is that she _wasn’t_ getting shit from you. Phillis is my friend, so it’s my freaking duty to bring her up to speed about what a complete and total scumbag you are.”

“Bullshit! I always knew you were a shady bastard, but this is lower than I’d thought you go!”

“If you want to talk about low, Paine, let’s talk about the shit you pulled in France when you—” A firm hand yanks John back down into his seat and Hercules has Phillis’ margarita in front of his face.

“I love you, you’re my bro, now drink this and shut the fuck up. People are starting to get nosy.” Hercules rumbles, inclining his head at the small scattering of heads turned their way.

“Finally a voice of reason.” Paine mutters.

Alex slams his bottle down. It’s obvious that John and Thomas are searching for a good excuse to tear into each other, and he really doesn’t want to spend his Friday night behind bars. This is the kind of crowd that calls the cops when people start fighting, and cops are the exact kind of trouble Alex tries to avoid. “Look, just go the fuck away Paine. No one wants you over here, anyway.”

“I didn’t want to be over here. I just came to get my girlfriend.”

The malicious laughter that comes from John’s direction is cut off by Hercules shoving Phillis’ margarita into his mouth. Speaking of, Alex glances over at Phillis who is starting to look fed up with the whole situation, no matter how tight she is with John and him.

“John, stop. Leave Thomas alone. Thomas, stop lurking around John because both of you have the restraint of three year olds when it comes to picking a fight. I’m going to go get a drink. _Alone_.” Phillis emphasizes when both Alex and Thomas look like they might follow her, then begins to push and shove her way through the crowd. Hercules heads after her, muttering something about getting a few bottles of water to sober John up a bit.

Paine whirls around on Laurens as soon as Phillis gets a few feet away “Are you fucking happy, Laurens?”

“Not in particular. You’re still here, after all.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!? I swear to God, if you’ve trashed things between me and Phillis with your shit-stirring…”

“It’s not my fault if your jacked up double-life costs you your meal ticket, buddy.”

Oh damn.

Never mind.

 _This_ , Alex tells himself, _this_ _is where the night goes to shit._ There’s no doubt about it. Thomas has the look on his face of a man who’s resigned himself to the fact that he’s screwed, but he’s taking his enemies with him. The sheer rage on his face is replaced with an eerie calm, and when he speaks, his voice is deliberately loud.

Loud enough to carry over the music and various conversations.

Loud enough that Alex instinctually wants to tackle him because whatever Paine says next isn’t going to be good. John has tons of dirt on Thomas, but Thomas probably has just as much dirt on John, and John’s dirt is a lot more potent than Thomas’s personal dramas.

Alex knows what’s coming even as Thomas lets the cat out the bag.

_Fuuuuuuuu------_

 

11:29 PM, EST

"You want to talk about leading double lives, John Laurens? Let's talk about the fact Daddy's pride and joy has been fucking the shit out of guys since undergrad!"

Jaws drop--and not all of them are from their group Alex notices as a few heads from nearby clusters swing their way. Nearby conversations lull into silence. They need to shut this shit down now, before John and Thomas' confrontation becomes the main attraction.

John's eyes go a little wild as he realizes the same thing too, only Alex is pretty sure John is going to go straight for murder instead of damage control. Laurens is up out the chair and in Thomas’ face, his voice a deadly hiss. "I swear to God, if you just outed me you and I are going to have problems!" John struggles as Alex begins to try and tug John away, but it gets him precisely nowhere. Phillis has cottoned on to the shit brewing and is making her way towards them, squeezing through the people to get back to their group, her gaze planted on Tommy. Alex notices she’s making pretty decent time, too. Thank God. At least he’ll have some help soon.

"Shit yeah we got business, Laurens! You can't come for me like that and think I won't settle up accounts!"

"Fucking trying to out me is not the same as me pointing out your _shitty academic career_ or _inability to accept your own fucking heritage_. Settling accounts is me telling everyone about how you knocked up an official’s daughter then turned around and bailed on her while we were in Europe! You ruined her life and she _died_ trying to give birth to your son. They _both_ died and you didn’t even have the fucking decency to show up to the _funeral_ you worthless sack of shit!" John is shouting at the end, and even if people hadn't really been paying attention before, they are now. This is some Young and the Restless level bullshit.

Phillis gives up on the calm approach and _runs_ because any idiot knows that what John just let out was the equivalent of bringing a nuke to a slap fight, Hercules wading through people after her.

Thomas goes a vivid shade of red and just like that, the situation's no longer salvageable. Alex lets go of John and steps back because this fight is happening now, no matter what, and he doesn’t need to catch any accidental blows off Paine because he was trying to stop John from throwing down.

“I’ll fucking kill you, Laurens!” Paine cocks his arm, elbow smacking into something just behind him, but he doesn't register it--or the accompanying yelp and resulting splash that occurs a few seconds after that--because his mind is in the here and now, and all that consists of is knocking John Laurens' teeth down his fucking throat. It’s a beautiful punch, but John has better reflexes so he's able to dodge the blow entirely and retaliates.

John swings, pouring all of his (rather considerable) disgust and rage into a right cross, and that one connects.

Worst. Friday. Night. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The role of Thomas Paine (who was brilliant, but could be kind of a giant assbucket sometimes) will be played by Wentworth Miller (who is thankfully not a giant assbucket).  
> The role of Phillis Wheatley will be played by Yaya DaCosta. (just knock off a few inches of height).  
> The Inglewood Jack, y'all: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YPXmGI92mVI  
> Part 2 should be wrapped up and posted soon (ish).


	3. How Alex Met Thomas Paine (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~Every action has an equal opposite reaction.~~
> 
>  
> 
> In which more trouble finds it way home.

 

11:42 PM, EST

Hercules isn’t talking to any of them.

John is pissed off and sore and fuming in the front seat of the car. His phone has been blowing up with message notifications ever since they cleared the parking lot, but he’s steadily ignoring them, staring out the window of his car.

Phillis is soaking wet and pissed off at Thomas _and_ John. Possibly maybe mad at him too, Alex suspects, but it wasn’t like he started any of that shit. That was _all_ John. He just backed his buddy up when things started going south.

Alex isn’t really pissed, just kind of hungry and maybe a bit edgy; the fight pretty much snapped him out of his buzz and now he’s got all this adrenaline running around with no outlet.

Hell of a way to end a party.

Alex makes good use of the head rest behind his seat as he stares at the roof of the car in weary contemplation. John’s probably going to be a wreck by morning. John was the sort who preferred to keep his preferences quiet, but had never _denied_ them. The problem, however, was that he, John, and Herc were all relatively new to DC, and John was still in the opening stages of the delicate process of branding himself and putting together a social persona. 

Sure, being Henry Laurens’ son was going to be a nice safety net, but actually getting to _still be_ Henry Laurens’ son came with strings attached because John’s dad had not taken his son’s coming out to him well at all, and the only reason he was even still acknowledging John at all was because John didn’t openly advertise his preferences. The frosty relationship between father and son would get blown straight to hell if word hit the right ears and got back to Henry--and judging from the continual message notifications, it would—and Alex didn’t know what that would do to John. For all the problems between them, John still loved his father and being cut off from his family would _hurt_.

“Is anyone hungry? I feel like we should be eating. And maybe talking? And maybe more drinking, because tonight is really screwed up and I don’t intend to go into the morning sober?”

Alex barks out a quick laugh. Phillis Wheatley, ladies and gents.

“I could go for something. I know it’s late and all but I guess fighting made me hungry?”

Hercules just stares at John incredulously for a long moment, then mutters something ugly under his breath and tosses his phone at Phillis. “Use the Dominos app.”

“I want a burger.”

Hercules snorts and takes a hand away from the steering wheel so he can jab it at John, who's beginning to look mutinous. “ _You_ are in fucking time out. We’re not stopping _anywhere._ We’re going home. With my luck, you'll get worked up and try to fight someone in the drive-thru because they're taking too long with your fries.”

“I don’t fight people in drive-thrus!”

“But you sure as hell throw down at pool parties.” Alex quips from the backseat, unable to resist.

John starts to protest, but just subsides and turns to look out the window. “Yeah, well, Paine fucking started it.”

Alex rolls his eyes. That was debatable.

Hercules isn't inclined to agree with John, either. “Maybe, but you sure as hell didn’t try to avoid the situation.”

“C’mon, Herc. I _really_ don’t need to hear it from you right now.”

“This shit plays out wrong, I’ll be the nicest person your hear anything from.”

Alex lets out a low whistle in the backseat. Hercules is right; he plays group dad because he's the most responsible person out of all of them, but at the end of the day they are all friends. If anyone goes to the cops, or in John's case, if it gets back to his dad, the fallout is going to be pretty nasty.

Phillis sighs in frustration, looks up from Hercules' phone that she's been tapping quietly at. “Jesus Christ, John. I thought you and your dad had come to terms about—”

“ _No_ , he gave me an ultimatum, Phillis.”

Phillis’ frown is as dark as the outrage shining in her eyes is bright.

“Your dad’s shit.”

John stiffens. “He’s still my dad.”

“Doesn’t change the fact.”

Alex sighs as John bristles at the insult to his father. Phillis is absolutely right, but family is family and John goes funny about his parental woes. “Alright, we’re done with this conversation, too.” Hercules’ tone brooks no argument as he swings into the apartment complex and heads for his parking space. “Pizza ordered?”

“Yeah. I just repeated your last order and tacked on a small pizza for myself.”

Alex thinks back as Hercules parks. What _was_ the last pizza they had, anyway? Hopefully not the one with the pineapples on it... “The meat lovers, extra cheese, extra bacon?”

“Yup. I threw in some cinnamon dippers and a bottle of Dr. Pepper, too.”

“What’s the damage?” He might have to go digging into his money stash, but—

“I paid for it. Seemed only fair since I tacked on my stuff.”

John glances over his shoulder at Alex. “We’re keeping her, right?”

Phillis slides out of the car and almost immediately starts shivering as the wind hits her thoroughly soaked form. “Hell yes you’re keeping me. Overnight, at the very least. I reek of chlorine and my clothes are soaking wet. I’m also no good to drive. I’ll sleep on the couch, but I’m stealing your shower and somebody’s clothes pretty much immediately.”

“You could at least play along and ask permission, Mizz Wheatley.” John nudges her casually in the side while they wait for Hercules to lock up the car, a carefully nonchalant apology for their almost argument a few minutes ago.

“I’ll make breakfast.”

Alex shares a quick look with John and Hercules before they all turn back to Phillis. “Deal.”

 

12:13 AM, EST

 

27 texts, 3 missed calls, and 3 Facebook messages. John’s a very popular guy all of a sudden. Why ever would that be?

Alex looks over at Phillis’ purse, which has been ringing continually for the last 20 minutes—ever since she took over the bathroom. Phillis had gotten halfway to the car before she took off running back to the pool to retrieve her purse. She came back with an update that things were already beginning to settle back into a semblance of normalcy since all involved parties had removed themselves, though Phillis could make out one or two hushed discussions about the evenings impromptu entertainment. 

They're not answering her phone again. Alex had finally gotten tired of the ringing, took his life into his hands by going in her purse to get her phone, and stared at the screen. Thomas Paine. Before either Hercules or John can stop him, Alex answers the call.

"Lissy! Baby--"

"You're a fucking shitty piece of work, Paine. Get bent."

Alex ends the call and tosses Phillis' phone back in her purse.

John taps him approvingly on the shoulder before he folds another slice of pizza into his mouth and chews, completely unconcerned about the lack of manners displayed as he stares at the manifestation of his own doom.

Alex sighs and slides the phone closer to John. “Just bite the bullet and read them. The sooner you know what’s up, the sooner you can run damage control.”

Hercules shakes his head and pours up another shot of vodka. “Leave it until the morning. You’ll do better on a clear head. Right now people are just fishing for info to feed the rumor mill.”

Alex sighs. Hercules has the better plan, but it’s a rational plan for rational people, and D.C. has the most out of control wretched excuse for a rumor mill in America. Maybe even the world. They’ll have John boning half the Legislature by morning and getting railed by Von Steuben once noon turns up. This is the same rumor mill after all, that drove First Lady Rachel Jackson to suicide. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he ever ended up at their mercy. The only way to not do that is to seize control of the narrative. They need to see how bad it is.

Alex eats all the toppings off his slice of pizza then begins to spread ranch dressing over the remains before he says as much.

John and Hercules give him disgusted looks for his pizza mutilation, then turn back to the phone.

“If I see Thomas Paine again, I’m killing him.”

“You only get out of felonies in D.C. if you’re in the chain of command. Down, John.”

Phillis pushes her way through their cluster toward the empty spot on the couch, a light cloud of Hercules’ Burberry Brit body wash in her wake. Alex arches an eyebrow at John as she passes. Phillis smells like Herc, is wearing Herc’s favorite hoodie (which fits like a sporty dress on her), and Hercules looks a little too smug about the whole thing.

Mr. Steal Your Girl is back at it again.

Wait, did it count since Phillis' whatever she had going on with Paine was on the rocks anyway? Alex whispers the question to John under the cover of Phillis and Hercules' momentary squabble over couch rights that ends with Herc planting both his feet on the floor so Phillis has room to curl up on the couch.

John hitches his shoulders slightly in a shrug, and Alex rolls his eyes at the non-comment.

Well, it's not like anything's going to happen. Herc's a fast mover when he see's something he wants, but if he's thinking about nabbing Phillis fresh off the rebound, he's got another thing coming. It took him a month of his A-game to charm Phillis into their two-night stand, and she freaking laid terms down on that crap. Just friends scratching a mutual itch, nothing less and certainly nothing more. Phillis was of the opinion that they made fantastic friends, but she'd kill him two weeks in if they attempted anything more.

She was probably right, though the mind boggled at how she stumbled into her current entanglement with Paine. Him on his _worst_ day would be a better prospect than Paine.

Phillis makes herself comfortable, fluffing up her curls and readjusting her pilfered clothing before looking around with a small frown. “Where’s my pizza?”

“Phillis Wheatley, you have sinned against God and Heaven and should be cast into the Lake of Fire for your remorseless transgressions.” John hands the smaller box of pizza over to her with a solemn shake of his head.

“Gotta love that old school fire and brimstone preaching. What did I do now?”

“That _thing_ you ordered is not pizza.” Alex accuses. They each snuck a piece of Phillis’ pizza because curiosity was a common source of their antics, but they were all betrayed. First problem? Phillis had switched out the marinara sauce for barbecue sauce. The toppings? Provolone, spinach, and double bacon. The crust? Thin and cut into squares. Sort of tasty, very weird, and abysmal as drunk food.

"It _is_ , and it's delicious." Phillis reaches for one of the larger squares and bit into it with a pleased hum.

"So, the issue on the table: do we read the messages on my phone now or in the morning?"

"Open them now." Phillis finishes chewing and reaches for another slice. "You need to know what kind of chaos you're looking at."

John looks at his cellphone like it might very well lunge out and spit deadly venom in his face. Alex doesn't blame him. Nothing good is coming out of opening that phone.

"The sooner you know, the sooner you can try to get out ahead of the rumor mill. Find the most important people messaging you, and reply to them. Ignore the rest."

"I dunno..." John stared at his phone like it was a live grenade.

"Trust me. I've got a publicist."

Fair enough.

John reaches for his phone and pull up the texts first.

 

1:09 AM, EST

 

"How is he?"

Phillis asks as she finishes stuffing the last of the soiled paper towels into the garbage. That done, she then goes for the Lysol to spray down the table and attempt to overpower the stench of vomit and bleach. It doesn't work _at all,_ and the new smell is well and truly horrid.

"Passed out." Hercules says quietly, rubbing a hand over his hair as he leans against the wall, getting as far away from John's party foul as politeness allows. Alex doesn't blame him; he barely enters the common room, eyeing the floor warily. John had some serious distance going when he--ew. Okay, mental block on that image.

"Did you remember to turn his head?" Phillis demands, an alarmed expression on her face.

"Yeah. Don't worry, _chica_. I'm going to crash in there with him too, make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit or anything." Alex grimaces as his mental block fails and he remembers the horror show that was one John Laurens eventually getting so worked up about the texts and messages on his phone that he wound up getting sick all over the coffee table. And their food. And himself. He and Herc had practically dragged John into the bathroom so he could finish his episode in a room designed to handle such shenanigans, then tossed him into the shower.

Phillis hadn't said much, and they'd honestly forgotten about her in the shuffle until she poked her head in to the bathroom to ask where the bleach and Lysol were, then went to work on ground zero, bless her.

"I told you numbskulls to wait until the morning to go through those texts." Hercules mutters, still put out about the whole thing but too worried about John to really ride the "I Told You So" for all its potential mileage.

"I didn't know he was going to react that badly! I wouldn't have said a word if I had even suspected he would go straight into an anxiety attack!" Phillis snaps back, a bit indignant about the whole situation. It's not like she grabbed his hand and made him swipe through all the messages, Jesus.

"Well, what I want to know is how it got back to his sister that fast." Alex just really can't believe how quickly everything went down. It was like every star had aligned in order to fuck John over.

"Henry Laurens is a senator and this shit went down at a party in D.C." Hercules sighs. "People are fucking nosy, you two and Paine weren't subtle _at all_ , and the right person recognized John and happened to know his sister, so they gave the juicy tidbits to her. Once that had happened, his sister went straight to his damn father and there you go. I didn't think it was going to get back so fast, though. Maybe by tomorrow afternoon. This shit blew up quick."

"Yeah. Shit. It kind of did." Alex scowls darkly. "What kind of asshole tells their sends a text message after midnight telling their son not to bother coming home for Thanksgiving?"

"The same kind of asshole who _knows_ their son isn't straight and remains a staunch supporter of the American Family Association." Phillis mutters. 10 minutes. 10 minutes in a locked room with a taser and John's dad. She'd be satisfied.

"Fuck. We'll figure out a game plan in the morning."

Alex wants to ask what kind of game plan does he think they can put together to handle a situation already gone to hell, but that's just a bit too defeatist for oh-fuck thirty in the morning, so he just yawns.

Of course it's contagious, and bounces straight to Phillis. She lets out a hastily covered yawn and studies her handiwork with a critical eye. “It’s about as clean as it’s going to get, y’all. Can I grab some blankets?”

Hercules frowns after he gets another good whiff of the coach area. The fumes are ridiculously awful, and the last 20 minutes have rendered it pretty much unfit for human use. They'll have to shell out for it to be deep cleaned. "Nope, babe. You’re crashing with me, not sleeping on the couch. There is evil there that does not rest.”

 Phillis huffs a quick laugh at the reference, then makes a face as the smell hits her. It’s obvious she isn’t even going to _pretend_ she can survive the olfactory wasteland born of John's emptied stomach. “I’m _just_ _sleeping_.”

Herc nods at her statement, and Phillis frowns.

“No funny business. I mean it.” 

“No funny business. “  Hercules agrees.

Phillis stares at him for a very long time, then relents. “Okay.”

"I'm going to turn in too, then. Make sure John doesn't check out like a rockstar." Alex rubs at his eyes, feeling exhaustion coming for him. He takes a quick stock of the living room to make sure there's no unfortunate missed spots that'll be full blown tragedies by morning, but Phillis doesn't mess around when it comes to damage control. As if summoned into action by his thoughts, she barks out a quick "Wait!" and wheels around to go digging into her purse. After a moment she pulls out a small Ziploc bag full of blue pills.

Awkward.

"Take two now, then two more when you wake up the first time."

"Is that Viagra??"

Phillis' expression is a masterpiece of confused disdain. "Alexander Hamilton, why the fuck would I be carrying around a bag of dick pills!?"  
  
"...so that's a no."

Alex graciously ignores Hercules' guffaw.

"It's Midol, Hamilton. Honest to God hangover helper."

"Wait, really? That actually works?"

"Hell yeah. I keep a stockpile for partying aftercare."

"Oh. I thought tha--you know what? No. I'm not even going to go looking for trouble."

"He learns!" Phillis scoops out a handful of pills and passes them over to Alex. "Drink it with water. Gatorade, if you've got it."

Alex takes the pills and throws up a peace sign as she heads down the hall, Hercules ushering her towards his room. "Good night, loser."

"Night, trouble." Phillis calls back before yawning.

11:18 AM, EST

 

Someone shakes him awake, pressing two pills into his hand.

"Murgh?"

"Take them, Alex."

Alex groggily obeys, way too tired to be difficult, and takes a sip from the bottle of water pressed to his lips.

"Go back to sleep."

Alex curls back in on himself, pulls the blankets over his head and burrows back into his pillow. "Thhanzzzz--"

John rolls his eyes at Alex's snoring and leans back against his pillow, scratching at his bare chest as he sinks back into his musings.

 

11:41 am, EST

 

Alex warily opens one eye warily, realizes that he isn't in _nearly_ as bad of a state as he should be in, and proceeds to open the other. A horrible demise by hangover was, in fact, not waiting for him. There's a dull ache in his body that will probably fade on its own in a few hours, but most of the edge that normally accompanied his hangovers is gone.

Awake, surprisingly functional, and in far less pain than he should--or deserves--to be in, Alex claws his way out from under his pillow and blankets, taking stock of the situation. It doesn't take long before everything comes together.

John walks back into the room, toweling off his hair and wearing a fresh pair of boxers.

"Crazy night." Alex offers up in lieu of a "good morning."

"Tell me about it." John mutters.

"You okay, man?"

It's a bit before John replies. "Yeah? I've been doing some thinking."

Alex wonders if John is going to make him go digging for his thoughts. John opens up easily enough, but not too much about home or especially his father.

"You...gonna share?"

"Not just yet. But I will. After we eat."

"Food? What's the plan on that?" Alex is rather enamored with the idea of going back to sleep, but food is food is--holy crap he smells bacon and coffee and--

John laughs at Alex's expression. "Herc dropped Phillis off at her apartment so she could change clothes and then they ran to the store. She's really hooked it up, man. She was making honest to God hashbrowns when I woke up. I haven't had real hashbrowns in _years_."

Alex isn't sure, but he thinks he might have drooled a bit.

John just shakes his head. "Get out my bed and go get in the shower. She'll be done by the time you get out and put some clothes on."

Alex groans, but complies. He's heading out the door when a wad of rolled up socks hits the back of his head.

"Why are you throwing crap at me!?"

"It hit your head. Nothing was damaged." John quips before his expression goes somber for a moment. "Thanks for backing me up last night. And for looking out for my sloppy ass.”

"We'll call it even for the time I got sick in your loafers."

John's expression morphs to one of disgust as he remembers the brand new Hugo Boss loafers Alex had hurled in after having one too many last year.  Two hundred bucks for a pair of shoes he would never get to wear. "Oh hey, look at that. I hate you again. Get out my room."

"But--"

John pokes his head out of the closest. "Out, Hamilton." A thrown shoe accompanies his demand.

Alex complies.

 

 


End file.
